I had lived, slept, and eaten at the hospice the four days before David’s death. The staff, all of them strong, wonderfully intuitive people, had moved a second bed into the room. The house chef made my meals, free of charge. All of this so that David and I could have quality time in his final days. It was more than appreciated, as the change in his condition had been swift.

A week earlier, I had taken David out for lunch. After, we had gone to a park by the ravine. One that had been a regular destination since adopting Singher, our crazy dog. I remember seeing David smile as he watched her chase after the ball I was throwing into the grass. He’d laugh as she would splash through the pond, not taking the long way, afraid I’d beat her to it. Days after that outing I would recall there was an odd peace about David as we left the park. He paused at the gate, glancing back at Singher who was, as usual, lazily bringing up the rear.

“You okay”? I ask.

“Yeah. Just looking”.

In the four days before the 24'th, I had only left David’s side to walk and feed the dog, often bringing her back with me so she could climb into his bed and snuggle. The staff never complained, instead they offered her biscuits and pats with each visit. On the morning of the 24'th I realized with some embarrassment that I was in the same underwear, shorts and T shirt I had lived the past two and a half days in. I was assured that yes, in fact, I was smelling a little ripe. I knew I needed to shower then feed, walk and water the mutt. When I left a little after ten thirty, David was largely unresponsive, though he opened his eyes, nodded, and squeezed my hand as I assured him I’d be right back.

It is roughly twenty minutes later when I set the water on mildly cool. As the first pulsations hit my back, it is the most pleasurable sensation I have experienced in weeks. I close my eyes, enjoying the cool and rapid jets. But no more than a second after my feet hit the bathmat I hear the phone. Instinctively I rush to it, wet, naked, tripping over the dog on the way, somehow avoiding a fall, finally catching the phone on its fourth ring.

It is Dan, head nurse at the hospice. “David’s breathing is slower and heavier, and he’s becoming anxious. I can give him a small dose of IV fentanyl, but I think you should come back”.

“Okay, just have to toss some clothes on and I’ll be out of here in five.”

“Leave now Allan.”

He does not need to tell me twice. With no underwear, a pair of gym shorts and a cotton plaid shirt I am doing up in the elevator, I proceed to make the short, eleven block drive to the hospice, one that crosses a bridge over a ravine as well as the busiest street in downtown Toronto. I make it in record time. Haphazardly parking the car, I jump out, glancing at my watch. 11:14 am. Sprinting the half block to the grand, old Victorian, I take the three lobby steps in one jump.

The face of Robert, the front desk receptionist, clearly tells me what we both don’t say, and I realize I am too late. When he struggles for words, I smile, quickly and reflexively raising my palm.

A sinking feeling of what it is when hope is lost.

Jim, David’s nurse, approaches as I get off the elevator. I look away and ask slowly and carefully if he is gone. “Just a few minutes ago”, Jim sighs, putting his hands on my shoulders.

I’ve long wondered what goes through ones mind at those moments. For me, it is like a slowly rising wave. I immediately connect to it, as it’s oddly reminiscent of surfing. An initial rise on the crest, followed by a single moment of profound, intense silence through the curl. But it’s only after the brief, momentary hover, silence ends, and everything comes crashing down.

It’s anger that hits first. White, hot anger. Anger at this fucking nightmare of the past almost year and a half. Anger at the hospital that gave David a medication he was allergic to. Anger that a needless mistake caused the liver problems. Anger at the fucking backwards transplant team who had said he was a “perfect candidate” for a transplant, except his asymptomatic HIV + status precluded his placement on the list. And yes, anger even at David. What the fuck? He couldn’t hang on for two God damn minutes til I made it back? Fuck!

And immediately I feel like a self centered shit for even thinking that. Then, it really hits. He’s gone. The man I have been with for eight years, the love of my life, is dead.

Closing my eyes, I count to ten.

I make it to four.

I sigh, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a burp, then I collapse into Jim’s thick, calming arms. His embrace is assured, strong, yet naturally tender. After what I assume to be several minutes, he releases, responding only to my deep breathing and relaxing body.

He tells me the time of death. 11:12 am. For whatever reason, through the uncomfortable mix of tears, laughter and snot, I manage to say, “I missed it by two minutes, and I have no fucking underwear on”. Laughter flows into tears yet again.

Several minutes later Jim and I enter David’s room. I hug Chuck, his friend of so many years who has been in the room with David until the end. I very briefly and very politely hug his sister. Who has stayed in the hall. And for the next several hours I sit with David and feel strangely at peace. Chuck and Jim tell me every detail, and the thought that they are attempting to spare me the reality of what had been a painful death, never comes. It would appear David slowly drifted off after the fentanyl, with two people who loved him at his side as he made his last transition.

It’s not until Tracy comes on shift that I actually verbalize it. David’s favorite nurse, Tracy is the one who has been in charge of his home care since his liver began to fail almost a year ago. They have grown extremely close during the last several months and we have come to regard her as nothing less than family. Taking my head to her chest, Tracy strokes my nape. Through sobs I say what I have been thinking since hours earlier.

“Why didn’t he wait? Why couldn’t he wait two fucking minutes! I promised him I’d be there. That’s all I’ve said for the last four days, and it’s the one thing I didn’t do.”

Cupping my face with her palms, assured brown eyes connecting with my own.

“He did that for you. So you wouldn’t have to forever hold that as your last moment with him. Allan, he did it because he loves you. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. I know it hurts, but that was his gift to you.”

And on most days, the good days, I believe her.